


Love Letter to Violence

by flikrin



Series: Dark Angels [1]
Category: Dark Angel, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flikrin/pseuds/flikrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>X5-494, Dean, is a genetically engineered soldier, created under Project Ragnarok and never say Dean isn’t a romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Letter to Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Fusion between Dark Angel and Supernatural. AU. A little bit of pain-kink/marking kink and Dean's vivid imagination/fantasy.
> 
> kink bingo fill – bites/bruises

Dean picked himself up from the ground with a grimace. It was always such a bitch when his target’s henchmen turned out to be supercharged with bio-implants that boosted their strength, stamina and speed. This particular group of minions were equipped with top of the line machinery and fuck, it really goddamn hurt when he punched them in the face, or when they punched him in the face.  
  
They circled him, their limbs creaking with oil and delicate electronics protected with inch thick titanium coverings. Too bad for them, transgenics could bend steel bars with a diameter up to three inches with their bare hands. No fancy technology needed other than their superior DNA.  
  
“Come get me, you fuckin' metal heads,” Dean grinned, teeth stained red and split lip aching.  
 

*

  
Setting about clean up, erasing all evidence of his presence, Dean disposed of the bodies and washed away all the bloodstains. There were also a few metallic body parts still attached to actual fleshy body parts lying around. Just gross. Still, he swept them all up and dumped them and set them on fire.  
  
Finally, checking every now and again that he wasn’t followed, Dean limped back to one of the Ragnarok safe houses and sat his injured and sleep deprived ass down on the spare cot.  
  
He’d barely flopped back onto the lumpy pillow when the com link fizzled into life. Dean kept his grumblings inside his head, deep, deep inside, it wasn’t even safe to think treasonous thoughts in his own skull, not with some of the PSY-OPS transgenic task force Ragnarok bred especially for interrogation and extraction.  
  
Some of them were alright, they actually seemed sorry about how they were going to rip apart his mind, brainwash or mind whammy him. Andy, X5-266 was cool, but his twin, X5-267, now that was a psycho Dean didn’t want twenty miles near him.  
  
“X5-494 reporting back to base,” Dean said into the com link. The communication line hissed, the static so loud it made Dean wince. He shook his head and made a face at it.  
  
The radio only hissed some more.  
  
Finally as the lines cleared, the computerized voice came over loud and clear, demanding, “State your designation.”  
  
“331845739494 reporting to base.”  
  
“Cleared.”  
  
Dean waited impatiently as the radio spat static at him.  
  
Then, “This is Lieutenant Christian Campbell. Mission status, report.”  
  
Dean almost groaned aloud when he heard. “Target elimination successful. It appears the target was importing bio-implants and technology from China and was about to negotiate the sale of manufacturing blue-prints to Africa, sir.”  
  
The static hissed. “Copy that. Tie up any loose ends and return to base. You have until 0530 hours.”  
  
“Yessir,” Dean managed to say before the line went dead and he rolled his eyes. At least that was short and more painless than it could have been.  
  
Dean burrowed his face into his concrete pillow, yes it was that hard and rough. Good thing transgenics were built tough.  
 

*

  
Dean woke to a hungry stomach, covered in filth and bruises that actually ached and remained. Things like broken bones and spurting arteries healed in less than a week. His split lip for one had healed, just a little tender when he prodded his tongue at it. Bruises were nothing, but it seemed the bruises he got rivaled the time he stepped in to break apart Sam’s brawl with his twin Lucifer.  
  
Stripping his filthy shirt and pants, he also stripped off the sheets and pillow case and gathered all the now redundant information needed for the mission. He stuffed them inside the incinerator and Dean never could figure out why Ragnarok couldn’t afford a decent pillow when they had expensive equipment like this lying around in every safe house.  
  
Shaking his head, Dean catalogued the veritable painting of purples and yellows on his skin. He traced a finger down each pattern, some fist shaped, angry violent hues temporarily recorded on his body. Dean pressed down, relishing the dull ache of burst blood vessels and the bruise darkened, a flush of bluish black.  
  
He bit his lip and wished Castiel were here with him. Castiel would look at him, dark lidded, touching him gently, the barest impression of a touch. Press fleeting and teasing kisses to each bruise, pin him there with nothing but his dark intent gaze and jerk Dean off, swift and brutal.  
  
Dean’s body flushed with want, all liquid heat. His knees were wobbly and he couldn’t even sit on the damn bed or he’d leave traces and Ragnarok didn’t look kindly upon sloppy clean up.  
  
Really, Dean didn’t see how a bit of blood or fallen eyelash could hurt anybody, but the handlers at Ragnarok, not to mention Sam nagged on about hygiene and protocol, what if some dumbass stumbled in, it could compromise the entire operation’s secrecy. But whatever, orders were orders and Dean was good at following orders.  
  
Still, he spread his legs further apart, widening his stance and firmly pressed his palms down on his chest and hips, felt how vulnerable he was. Dean’s breathing quickened as he curled his fingers and felt how easily his flesh gave way under the solid strength of the steel bio-implants, leaving pretty purple, star-burst yellow and blue marks on his him, blue like Castiel’s eyes.  
  
And how close his tantalizing brush with death was. Dean touched the bruise on his cheek, just slightly swollen. If the target’s hired thugs had hit any harder, he’d be nursing a shattered cheekbone instead. Dean shivered and his lips parted, worried at and bitten almost raw. Dean’s desire to be back with Castiel was almost like a punch to the gut, sharp and brutal. He wanted Castiel to kiss him, lavish attention to all his aches until Dean was all relaxed and sleepy.  
  
Then he wanted Castiel fuck him hard, grip his shoulders with his large hands, holding him down. Have Castiel exert his normally restrained power hidden in his leanly built body and replace all the bruises with the ones Castiel made, so that the only marks on his body were the ones from Castiel.  
  
Have Castiel bite down on him, leave bloody imprints of claim and conquest for all the others to see. It made Dean glow with pleasure every time and satisfaction every time Castiel did so, lost enough in his desire for Dean to lose control.  
  
If it were possible, Dean would laser off his barcode and replace it with Castiel’s. Too bad transgenic regeneration rendered tattooing impermanent, any tattoos would be erased after a few weeks and his own barcode would reappear again.  
  
Eyes burning with determination, Dean pulled on the standard issue civilian clothes Ragnarok kept in the closet for cases when they had to blend in with the nomalies. Briskly and with practiced ease, Dean packed all his belongings, strapped his firearms away and slipped his knives down his boot and secured them around his wrists.  
  
Heat curled in his belly whenever his clothing brushed a particularly tender area or when his weapons dug into his skin. Dean had to get back to base before his bruises faded, pronto.


End file.
